


da'oisin

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Death, F/M, Gore, Irish mixed with elvish, Kidnapping, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Flidais is kidnapped in Kirkwall and subsequently forced to fight for her life. But <i>shemlen</i> don't seem to understand that you cannot bind a goddess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	da'oisin

Flidais unleashes a ball of fire that she never gave much thought to, her palm smoldering when the smoke clears, her hair as wild as her eyes. She cracks her neck and bends her knees, bringing her center of balance closer to the earth that she is, that she will always be. Her staff is somewhere behind her, useless; the _shemlen_ lord had made sure of that.  
  
She is treated as an animal to be caged here, to play before the prince, before a king with no name, no throne, no crown. She spits elven at him from her chains, the shackle around her neck a little too tight. She wonders if, when it cuts into her skin, it will leave a scar.  
  
Briefly, she wonders if the others are looking for her.

  
For she is almost naked, small breasts rising and falling with her chest as she stomps her foot to the ground, bringing forth the rifts that ruined her life and smashing one down upon her opponent. Even with one arm, she knows the way of the new-old magic, can feel it, always a centimeter out of reach.  
  
Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead and the chains hold her far enough away from the big man that is her opponent that she cannot end him with her fist. She shouts, lightning erupting from her hand, “How long must you hold me here?”  
  
“Until you learn, knife-ear.”  
  
“Only a year ago, you called me _Your Holiness_ ,” Flidais whispers. The fight is over. The big man has stopped twitching.  
  
“Only a year ago, you commanded the world’s biggest army.”  
  
“I still wield weapons,” she spits, panting, walking towards him for as long as the shackles will let her. The throne room is dark, shadowed; she has never seen his face, always hidden. She wants to insult him; she knows that the easiest way to do that is to fight back.  
  
The magic beneath her skin, that which sometimes replaces blood, boils over. And she blinks and her eyes glow green, a forest illuminated by the moons she had placed in the sky all those eons ago. The metal that binds her shatters.  
  
She wonders where they are. The heart of the lion is close. Leading him are the grey jewels. The hawk is on their heels. Her sister must be here, her brother. Perhaps her friends. The voice of a god she does not know.  
  
The wolf must be watching. She’ll be sure to smile.  
  
Flidais says, _You cannot bind a goddess_ , and he is dead.  
  
His bones are as mud, his hair fungi; he never held a crown. Usurper, the people would whisper, sitting on a throne of blood, and the spirits murmur in her ears, sharp as a blade but she is sharper, and for a moment, she is in nirvana.  
  
Familiar grips pull her to the earth she is made of. She is naked and she is new and she is the goddess that never heard a word, and a cape is being thrown around her, warm, disregarding the grime and the gore that layers her flesh, and she buries her face into Cullen’s chest.  
  
“Maker,” Cullen murmurs, holding her close, big arms like a shield.  
  
She does not cry. She is too angry to cry, too shaken, too shattered.  
  
“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” she says instead, looks up at him. Her gaze is white on green on black, dotted with red lines like map routes. “Tell me: how long was I away?”  
  
He says, “Too long.”  
  
The Red Jennies quickly do a sweep around them, Hawke speaking in short whispers with the Fereldan queen, her king cape-less and stone-faced, surveying the damage. If Varric were to write a book about this, she thinks, no one would believe a word.  
  
Fergus murmurs, “ _Foltchaoin_ ,” and she answers, “ _Ró-ech_ ,” and Mana says, “ _Da’oisin_ ,” and she answers, “ _Da’preachan_ ,” and the words are like honey to her tongue, like liquor.  
  
And the throne room is shadowed, dark, illuminated by thousands of candles. The cold bites her no more, and she is washed in the safety of being far away from the castle, flowers blooming in her sted.

**Author's Note:**

> Da'oisin is supposed to mean little fawn.  
> Da'preachan = little crow.
> 
> Flidais, in my headcanon, is the reincarnation of Mythal. Mana = Elgar'nan. Fergus = Falon'din. Sera, I think, is Andruil. This is supes important to all my stories about my elves.


End file.
